


Never Again

by RobertLewandowski



Category: Football RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobertLewandowski/pseuds/RobertLewandowski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You thought maybe you were indeed old enough. Enough that even memories too, became too impatient to waste any more time on you, enough to be weak, enough to forget about everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Again

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt in Gerlonso. First attempt in the whole writing thing. Wish I wasn't ruining them.

 

 

And since then you had never met Xabi again.

 

For quite a long time, you almost believed that he would come back, once again beneath Liverpool’s sober grey sky. But instead he left for Bayern, where the mustachioed men dance hilariously in the beer garden, accordions in their hands dragging every piece of dusty memory away.

 

He’d never come back. You thought. And maybe he’d decided that a long time ago. So long ago when you were still teasing and laughing around the long bar table with all those dirty jokes and nonsense, when no one thought about 10 years slipping away, when the glory of the trophy still illuminated every corner of Liverpool like a never waking dream. And you were too, not as old.

 

It took so long for you to realize that. And now it’s time for you to leave.

 

So you never met Xabi again. It’s not that you didn’t have the chance to. It’s just that the Captain Fantastic who used to capture every single chance even the faintest one, had been finally worn down by all those years of drama and hurts.

 

 

Yet you still saw Xabi, sometimes, only very few moments, when you were all by yourself.

 

You could see his once clean-shaven face, see the shyness in his smile, see him spreading out his arms and then jumping into you.

You could see him eagerly dragging you into the Spanish restaurant he loved the most, where he’d gesticulate wildly in his clumsy Spanish-English, trying to convince you how good Spanish food could be, and leave you stupidly staring at the menu full of the “comforting” odor of garlic soup.

You could see him racing on the pitch. His forehead was dripping. Sweat dropped into his collar. The cloth on his back was all wet, crumpled, clinging on his skin.

You could see him leaning against the fence, smilingly looking up at you. And then you would come up and rest your forehead on his, at a place where no one knew what you had done.

 

You could see back at the time your wrinkles were not as deep, his cheek and chin still soft. He would grab a bottle of iced beer and jump into your sofa, only wearing shorts, then turned the tele to his favorite movie channel.

The black and white image was long blurred, yet you still remembered the way he lay back beside you and how the shining dots from the screen lightened up his face. You remembered you could watch him like that forever. The time was quickly passing by yet remaining still.

You’d almost be dreaming every time the end credits showed up. But then he’d always caressingly curl up on you. His hands locked on your shoulder and waist. His kiss went all the way up from your collarbone, until gently fell on your lips with the least hesitance. Your bodies lingered on one another, twisted and hardened and burnt but fitting so well. You could feel his finger sinking deep into you.

 

Then the whole room was full of his smell, his fieriness, the strength of his fingertips, the softness of his palms.

His sweat, the burning tip of his tongue, the skin on his back tightening in the cold night.

His thrust, his hardness, his trembling, the muscle on his thigh. His groan, the weight of his body, his flapping lips distractingly mumbling out your name “Stevie…Ah…Stevie…”

 

The immorally aroused pleasure dived too deep into your veins, hurting you almost every time you gasped.

It couldn’t be more familiar to you, all the image, smell, sound and touch.

You used to replay it again and again, yearning in memory till you panted, till your hands wet, till you totally blanked out.

Yet still it hurt you more and more each time you dreamt about it.

 

Just like the dust and diesel left in wind by a tired old car.

A withered leaf floating in circle.

A teardrop bleeding into a dying cigarette.

 

 

And then you saw Xabi standing under the Munich sunshine with his back to you. Ane grabbed his right hand and Jontxu sat on his shoulder, seizing a kid-sized ball. Nagore held Emma, running all the way from the back to him and holding his arm tightly. You couldn’t hear what she said. But then Xabi gave them each a kiss and Emma chuckled.

 

It was gorgeous, you thought.

So you watched and watched and you were too tired.

 

You thought maybe you were indeed old enough. Enough that even memories too, became too impatient to waste any more time on you, enough to be weak, enough to forget about everything.

 

So you just closed your eyes.

 

Mersey flowed, silent and alone outside your window.

 

 

 

It was a summer day, Liverpool, 2004. The 23-year-old Xabi Alonso walked into Anfield, wearing red. The scent of the wind and grass gently fell on him. The 24-year-old Steven Gerrard met him for the first time.

 

 

 


End file.
